There was nothing spectacular about the image of an open packet of medication and a half-drunk bottle of water, but Zane couldn't stop staring at it, couldn't stop staring at the notification just below it: this contact has blocked you.
Neither could he stop the frustration bubbling within him—annoyingly alive, annoyingly persistent.
He had sent her the package to avoid more tense conversations like the one they'd had that morning, and yet…
He shook his head, dropping the phone on the table with a soft thud. What was wrong with him? he mused darkly, dragging his gaze to the laptop before him.
He had a lot of work on the table, a lot of planning to do regarding their newest acquisition and the convention coming up, and instead he was thinking about a woman.
A woman who had broken his heart, who had, unfortunately, confirmed his father's words.
He gritted his teeth and forced the picture of his father to fade away.
It still swamped him with shame whenever he remembered what the man had done, the evil he had committed, the millions of lives lost.
If the bastard had survived the final shoot-out, Zane would have shot him himself.
His nostrils flared with anger as memories began to rise, violent and unwelcome, so much so that he had to take deep breaths to quell them, to push both anger and memory out of his system.
His father was done and out, and hopefully burning in hell.
And just like that woman to bring his father and his wretched lessons about women to mind.
He sighed and picked up a document. But he couldn't concentrate.
It was the sex. He concluded miserably. That damning sex.
He didn't remember much of the night, but he remembered enough. His treacherous mind remembered the suppleness of her skin, the soft desperation in her moans when he touched her in those right places his hands had remembered.
Zane cursed under his breath and dropped the document again.
He shouldn't have followed her out.
He should have returned with Sandro to his apartment, finished the drinks there. But no—he had allowed his curiosity to drag him along, to the bar where she'd been taking shots like she was drinking water.
Duty to his friends had made him stay with her, obligated him to keep her safe from the leery eyes of men who had been watching her, waiting for the right time to take advantage of her.
But she had good alcohol tolerance—or so he thought at the time. And seeing she held her ground, he'd started to drink too, for the sake of having something to do.
Women had approached him; he had turned them down, until a persistent one—one he now deduced had been behind his state of drunkenness—managed to get too close.
She had put something inside his drink. He was certain of it now. It was the only thing that explained why everything after had been blurry. Maybe she had been offended by his refusal. Maybe she had recognized him. Maybe she had simply wanted to brag that she'd bedded a billionaire.
He shuddered at the thought, even as he wondered why, of all possible outcomes, he hadn't ended up with that woman, but with Gianna.
He cracked his head back, struggling to remember, and faintly recalled himself and Gianna laughing about something as they staggered out of the bar. Snippets here and there—of them at the registry… of them booking a suite… of them laughing at each other… then fumbling garments… skin meeting skin… the frantic…
A knock shattered the memory.
Zane cursed under his breath, annoyed he had been… hoping to remember in detail. To savor Gianna.
But one thing was certain: he wouldn't be forgetting her moans anytime soon—moans that brought back the good old days—no matter how much he wished he could visit a mind clinic and erase the memory.
"Come in," he said, masking everything behind a bland face.
Sabrina walked into the office—catwalking more precisely—her long lashes fluttering needlessly. "Good morning, sir."
He would have told her that her attempts to lure him into bed were futile. He might have been tempted before, never one to say no to a beautiful woman, but she was that traitor's cousin. She reaped a transferred form of hatred by default.
She was only in his company because she was a good jeweler, and a great assistant.
"Sabrina, how did it go?"
"Good," she said, batting her lashes again.
He held back the urge to dismiss her—her perfume alone was a crime against humanity, one that deserved charges.
"The place has potential," she continued. "It could serve as a meeting point of sorts… a showcase of our goods and talents… a good addition to the company. And it's at a good site too."
Zane nodded. "I assume you have a detailed report…"
"On its way, sir. I'm still working on it."
"Good. You are dismissed."
But Sabrina stayed rooted to the spot. Contemplating. Calculating.
He could see her mentally reviewing her outfit, probably weighing whether now was the time to walk around the table and pounce.
He lifted his brow. "What are you waiting for? Is there something else?"
She wanted to shake her head, but annoyance flickered across her face as she remembered her cousin.
"About Gianna…" she said finally.
She noticed, with irritation, the slight spark of attention in Zane's eyes.
"What about her?"
"I met her at the company. She is… not happy about the acquisition." Sabrina folded her arms, feigning wounded dignity. "She cursed the company. And slapped me for it."
Zane frowned. "Slapped you? Why…"
He exhaled. He didn't have time for this. "You'll be compensated."
"Is there anything else?" he added when he realized she was still hovering.
"I don't think she's fit for the company," Sabrina said sharply. She knew the company was still considering her cousin, and she was determined to sabotage it.
That lousy cousin of hers should remain jobless forever!
"And I don't think…"
The door burst open—forcefully, loudly, rudely.
Revealing the much-talked-about Gianna.
A fuming Gianna.